Things We Tell Ourselves
by gveret
Summary: The women and girls Laura's loved and lost. And Jubilee.


**Note:** I took some liberties with comics canon. Among other things: Laura's focus on Julian is slightly less (read: not at all) all-consuming, her taste in clothes is a lot less senselessly sexualized, and the whole thing with Bendis' All New X-men just plain doesn't happen. Also Laura is small and buff and hairy. And trans. (You know the science of the partial clone thing is nonsensical. "Degraded Y chromosome." Uh huh.)

 **Warnings:** self harm, transmisogyny, dysphoria, trauma, dissociation; mentions of underage sex work, rape and abuse.

* * *

The second time Jubilee takes Laura shopping, she picks several dark, high neckline dresses for Laura to try. Laura dutifully tries them on, one after the other, but when she looks in the mirror, she doesn't see herself. Not in the same way that she doesn't see Jubilee; in some different, inarticulate, but undeniable way.

"I do not think I like dresses," Laura concludes.

"Hm," Jubilee says, looking her over. "Okay." She takes hold of Laura's hand, and intertwines their fingers. "Hey, let's try the menswear section."

They don't end up buying anything, but Laura gets to see Jubilee in a suit, and she likes it kind of a lot.

Two days later Jubilee shows up at the apartment in her yellow trench coat and sunhat and a bulky bag. Laura lets her in and clears her Hebrew, Finnish and Thai textbooks off all living room surfaces.

Jubilee kicks off her boots and shrugs out of her coat. "I have something for you," she says as she sits on the edge of the coffee table, Laura following suit. "Actually, I have two things for you."

She pulls a black fake leather jacket out of the bag. "Okay, this is for when you're doing the _brooding hero watching over Gotham_ thing," she explains.

"I am not a brooding hero," Laura objects.

Jubilee just gives her a look, the one with the eyebrow. "Anyway, this," she continues, tossing the jacket into Laura's face and holding up a large black sweatshirt with _Threat Level X_ printed on it, "is for just snuggling. Both black, because it's you, obviously." She rolls her eyes with a smile.

 _I do not snuggle,_ Laura thinks of saying, but doesn't. With Jubilee, it might be possible. And in that case, Laura thinks she might want to try.

"I didn't wrap them for you, 'cause I didn't think you're the gift wrap ripping type," Jubilee says, and Laura nods. She's not sure what kind of type that is, anyway. "But make no mistake, at Christmas you're not gonna have a choice. And of course we're going trick or treating on Halloween."

Laura isn't sure how to reply, so she silently folds away the jacket and pulls the sweatshirt on, zipping it all the way up. The fit is rather loose, but it's warm and soft and actually very comfortable. It smells very faintly of Jubilee. It feels a little bit like an unending hug.

When she looks back up, Jubilee is smiling at her in a soft sort of way. "You look perfect," Jubilee says, equally as softly.

 _I love you_ , Laura thinks, unprompted, involuntary; but says nothing.

"Anyway, it's still light out, and I don't feel like getting back in my trench coat," Jubilee says casually. "So let's test that thing's snuggability, yeah? We can watch _Orange is the New Black_."

They sit next to each other on the couch, and Jubilee borrows Remy's pink laptop to sign into Netflix and start up an episode. She explains some of the cultural context to Laura, and fast forwards all the sexually violent parts. Jubilee's shoulder and hip are close enough to Laura's to touch, and halfway through the episode, she leans her head on Laura's shoulder and covers the back of her hand with a palm, fingers slipping in between Laura's, loosely laced together.

Laura doesn't know whether it's the sweatshirt's snuggability, or something else. Either way, it has instantly become her new favorite piece of clothing.

.

.

Sometimes when a room has tile walls, or a bed has no sheets, or a chair has particular armrests, Laura thinks about the facility. She remembers it with perfect clarity and an overwhelming sense of abstraction; but when she thinks about it now, even though it's only memory, even though it seems so out of grasp, she's always surprised by the reality of it. It hadn't felt real when she was there. She hadn't felt real when she was there.

She remembers sitting cross legged and staring at walls, between sessions and missions and Dr. Kinney's visits. Sitting and staring and breathing and memorizing the texture of the floor, the scent of disinfectant, the unintelligible sounds squeezing through the soundproof doors. She'd sat and stared, for hours and sometimes days, pressure ulcers and locked joints healing the instant she was summoned and got up.

Back then, her pain had been a dream; her fear had been a joke; her desires, a nonentity. Even when Dr. Kinney had read her books, held her hand, hummed her songs, she hadn't really been a person.

There were flashes of reality. One of them had been when she rescued Megan. One of them had been right after.

After Rice had screamed at Dr. Kinney and then took Laura to her room, Dr. Kinney found her there. She gave Laura a hand and helped her to her feet, and looked at her, and ran her hands over her face, her shoulders, her arms, her back, and pulled her into a hug.

"Thank you, X-23," Dr. Kinney had said, as she cried and shook and clung to Laura. "You brave, brave boy."

And Laura liked the weight of her, warm and heavy and painless, and she liked the way Dr. Kinney talked to her, approving and happy and relieved. But something in her, something sharp and strangely focused, didn't like the things she said.

"I am not a boy," she'd told Dr. Kinney, thinking of Megan, thinking of Weapon X, thinking, startlingly, for once of herself. "I am a girl."

Dr. Kinney cried harder, and clung harder as well. "Brave girl," she said. "You're a brave girl. I'm sorry. My brave, lovely girl."

Laura said nothing more, and simply stood, silent and still, as Dr. Kinney held her. She didn't hug her back. At the time, she wasn't fully aware of the mechanics of a hug, or her ability to perform it. She wasn't aware of her need for it, either. So she just stood, and endured.

As she remembers that moment now, Laura can only yearn, and regret.

.

.

Jubilee takes Laura out to get midnight ice cream.

"Jubilee," Laura reminds her, "you are a vampire."

Jubilee waves her hand. "I can get like sorbet or something," she explains. "It's mostly just water and sugar, so it dissolves in my system no problem. I don't even have to throw up or anything." She glances at Laura. "What? You think blood is that easy to digest? My stomach still works."

"Being a vampire is less interesting than I thought," Laura says.

Jubilee laughs, and it makes Laura feel warm.

Jubilee orders grapefruit sorbet. Laura gets a salted caramel peanut butter cheesecake ice cream, because it has the most components listed. The clerk asks her if she wants it dipped in chocolate and sprinkles, and she says yes.

The ice cream is immediately too sweet, and Laura abandons it in favor of watching Jubilee happily lick hers. She looks content and carefree, singularly focused on her vaguely pink sorbet, and Laura wishes she could look at Jubilee looking like that all the time.

Eventually Jubilee notices Laura watching, the barely touched ice cream melting slowly beside her. Jubilee smiles apologetically. "I would've taken you dancing," she says. "But last time you cut a guy's hand off."

She did. He had tried to slip a pill into someone's drink. She'd almost been arrested.

"It's okay," Laura tells her. "I don't think I like dancing so much."

Jubilee gives her a meaningful look, though Laura can't tell the meaning. "You don't like dancing in _public_ ," Jubilee says. "Just wait and see."

.

They go back to Remy's apartment; he is out somewhere with Cecilia. Jubilee closes all the blinds so she can get rid of her nylon raincoat and large sunglasses, and then plugs her phone to Remy's speakers.

"Now," Jubilee says, reaching out to Laura. "Take my hand. You know how to move, so that's not the hard part. For now, just follow me."

Laura takes her hand. It's cool and solid, like always. She loves Jubilee's hands. And she loves to hold them. Hold Jubilee's hand and move like her. That is something Laura can do.

"You gotta feel it," Jubilee tells her. "You'll figure it out."

They move together. The music is loud, but there is no crowd. There is no one watching. No one touching her, except Jubilee. And Jubilee is touching her. Not just her hand. Her waist, her shoulder, her hip brushing against her side. And Laura lets the music wash over her, lets Jubilee guide her, lets herself feel her, and then they're dancing. They're dancing together, and it's sort of comfortable, sort of thrilling, and Jubilee was right. Laura does like dancing. But not in a club. Not with strangers. She just likes dancing with Jubilee.

Suddenly, Jubilee stops dancing. The music blares on as Jubilee stands, motionless, pressed so close that Laura can feel her breath on her face. And then, as the track ends and is chased by another, Jubilee closes her eyes, leans in, and kisses Laura on the lips.

For a moment, Laura freezes, unable to react, and Jubilee almost pulls away; but Laura takes hold of her shoulders, and tilts her head, and kisses her back, and Jubilee gasps and leans in further. They fumble and falter, and several times Jubilee's fangs almost nick Laura's tongue, but it all feels exciting and wonderful and exactly right.

They break apart. Laura is panting lightly, her heart beating a frantic rhythm in her chest. She has never kissed anyone like this. She has never kissed anyone like Jubilee. She feels something _click_ , something which has been loose and rattling inside her for so long, for years, maybe for her entire life.

But Jubilee doesn't look like she's had an important part of her finally slide into place. She looks bewildered, and scared, and terrifyingly regretful.

"Oh, shit, oh shit," she chants. "Shit shit shit. I'm so sorry. Fuck. I'm sorry, Laura, I shouldn't have –" She stumbles back a step, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Shit, Laura, I'm sorry. I have to go."

"Wait," Laura says, an edge of desperation probably audible in her voice. "Don't. Please."

Jubilee gives her a look like her arm is being sawed off. "I'm sorry, X. I can't." She shakes her head, almost frantically. "This was a mistake."

In a blink, Jubilee is just a step away from the door, and Laura is staring at her retreating back.

 _Your blood will keep her here,_ a numb and instinctive part of her knows. But she knows her blood will hurt Jubilee, as well, and so Laura keeps her claws in and keeps her words in too, and can only breathe as evenly as she was taught as she watches Jubilee throw a pained glance over her shoulder and open the door and walk away.

If there's a feeling in Laura's chest like her ribcage has become too tight, or something in her stomach like a big writhing worm, or if she's too aware of her lips in a way that isn't pleasant anymore, it's okay, because this is what she's always been best at, getting over the things she feels.

.

.

The other students at Xavier's school do not like her. They're mutants, like her, so that's not why. Julian Keller calls her a _clone_. It is what she is, but his tone is loaded when he says it. It is meant to be an insult. Santo Vaccarro calls her a _he_. He does this because she isn't the most typical kind of girl, but Laura thinks he should be able to understand. He isn't the most typical kind of boy.

"Don't listen to them," Cessily Kincaid told her on her first day. "They're just stupid boys. You're gonna live in the girls' dorm, don't worry."

Laura doesn't think Cessily dislikes her. Laura's roommate is Sooraya Qadir, and she doesn't think she dislikes her either.

Sooraya Qadir is very kind. She is thoughtful and calm and clever and accepting of others. She doesn't hurt people. She says this is because she believes in Allah and His judgment. Laura admires that. She wishes she could be the same. But she thinks it's more than Islam that makes Sooraya this way.

After Laura disguises herself in Sooraya's clothes so that Sooraya wouldn't be caught in Striker's trap, Sooraya touches her arm briefly, back in their room, and brushes a bullet hole in her sleeve.

"Thank you," she says to Laura. "For saving my life, I think."

Laura nods. She's not particularly used to being thanked, and she hasn't made up her mind about the experience, either.

"I think the way the others think of you is misguided," Sooraya continues. "You're not a bad person, Laura."

It doesn't sound quite right. But she wishes it would be, more than anything. "They think I am always angry." Laura struggles, as always, to explain herself. "I am not always angry."

"I understand," Sooraya says, fingers curling around nothing, squeezing air.

And Laura looks at her, and she thinks it's the truth. And it feels nice. "Okay."

Sooraya looks back, and laughs softly, and stretches her arms above her head. In a t-shirt and no niqab, Laura can see the solid mass of her biceps and deltoids. Her body language might be saying: embarrassed. But what Sooraya says is, "You have a lovely smile, Laura."

And Laura _is_ smiling, she realizes. And, perhaps, Sooraya likes that.

Laura thinks about kissing her at that moment. She thinks about touching her hand, and having hers held. She thinks about gripping her shoulders, feeling the firmness of the muscles for herself, and maybe cupping her cheek, like people seem to enjoy doing, and leaning her forehead against the side of her neck. It might feel good. It might not. But she thinks about it.

Sooraya lowers her arms, keeps them close to her body. Self conscious, defensive. Laura's most likely been looking too long. Laura looks down and leans back. _No threat_ , she wants her body to say to Sooraya's.

"We should get some sleep," Sooraya says, and gets up. "It has been a long day."

Sooraya leaves for the bathroom, and Laura is left alone to repeatedly play their exchange over in her head.

Laura never kisses Sooraya. She looks at her, and sees her, and she thinks about it. But Sooraya wouldn't want to be kissed. And she wouldn't want to be kissed by Laura. So Laura never does.

.

.

Laura sends Jubilee two texts which go unanswered.

 _'i watched the steven universe cartoon you mentioned.'_

And, four days later, ' _jubilee. i am sorry. are you there?'_

Sometimes she sits, curled up in the big sweatshirt Jubilee had given her, and tries to compose letters of confession in her head. She never manages to get it to sound the way she wants, even just to herself.

Weeks later, she receives several consecutive messages from an unknown number.

 _'I'm sorry I didn't contact u before_

 _'I've been away_

 _'With a group of other vampires_

 _'Figuring things out_

 _'Changed my phone_

 _'Can I come visit you at ur new school?_

 _'This is Jubilee btw'_

After rereading the messages so many time she's unintentionally memorized them, Laura sends back: _'yes.'_

Jubilee arrives on a Saturday afternoon, wearing a trench coat Laura doesn't recognize and smelling of places Laura's never been and people she's never met. When she spots her, Jubilee smiles and waves and jogs up to her, but she doesn't hug Laura. She just squeezes her shoulder, and in that moment, Laura realizes how badly she's been craving Jubilee's hugs.

They sit down together in a secluded area of the academy grounds, in the shade, so Jubilee can take off her enormous hat.

"Hey, Laura," Jubilee says, and Laura is reminded how much she likes hearing Jubilee say her name. "I'm sorry. I'm really so, so sorry. For disappearing, and for not talking to you sooner, and for, just, everything. It's not that – I care about you so much, you know that, yeah?"

Laura nods, though she isn't sure she knows that at all. "You are my friend," she says.

"Yeah, I am. I am," Jubilee agrees emphatically. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Laura. I never wanted to hurt you. You're too – you're too fucking used to that."

Laura looks at her silently. She's not sure she likes that as a reason.

"I just – you're younger than me, you know? And you're not –" Jubilee cuts herself short and frowns, running a hand over her face. "I don't wanna take advantage, Laura."

Laura thinks about that. She thinks about taking advantage, and things that she's not. She thinks about Jubilee not wanting to hurt her. And she thinks she understands. And it hurts. "Jubilee." Jubilee turns to look at her, and there's the beginning of tears in her eyes. Laura looks away. She wants to ask: _What am I not?_ She wants to know, what does she lack? But she has a feeling the answer would be: _too little, too much, everything that's important._ "I think I should not kiss anyone anymore."

"Oh, Laura." Jubilee shifts closer to her. "I don't think that," she says. "I don't think that at all."

"I have a soul," Laura tells her abruptly. Somehow it feels like something she'd like Jubilee to know. "But I know that is not enough."

"You have a soul," Jubilee agrees, her tears now at the middle. "And a penchant for protecting people with your life. And a shocking lack of ability to lie or manipulate or say anything except the complete, unembellished truth. And an honestly pretty dry sense of humor that still needs a lotta work. And a preference for spicy food. And a very quiet, obscure, powerful way of showing your love for someone." Jubilee reaches out, but stops just short of touching Laura's wrist. "That _is_ enough, Laura."

 _Not for you_ , Laura thinks, but doesn't say.

Jubilee wipes her tears roughly with the back of her arm. Her phone makes the sound it does when Logan calls. "Shit. Sorry, Laura," she says thickly, silencing her phone and slipping it in her back pocket.

 _I love you,_ Laura wants to say, _needs_ to say like nothing else before, the words burning an urgent pattern in her mouth. _Please, don't go. We do not have to kiss. Just stay._ "Jubilee," she manages, and maybe her voice has the appropriate flavor to it for once, because Jubilee looks like she's hurting. _Empathy,_ Laura thinks. _Jubilee is an empathetic person._

But Jubilee says, "I can't."

So Laura can do nothing but nod. "Okay."

And Jubilee leaves again.

.

.

Laura isn't angry all the time. She observes other people, and in comparison, she thinks she isn't angry much at all. She wasn't angry when Scott Summers asked her to kill for him, and she wasn't angry when Logan told her her life was worth less than Rahne Sinclair's, and she isn't angry when Humberto always eats her yogurt.

But she is angry when Jubilee leaves for the second time. She's angry, and sad, and she breaks her fingers several times in quick succession against the steel frame of one of the academy's ovens, then curls around her perfectly healed hand and cries.

.

Jeanne finds her like this, some time after dark. She almost walks past her, but then pauses, and turns on a light.

"Laura," she says. "Why are you in the kitchen?"

Laura grunts. After a moment, Jeanne walks over, and crouches down next to her. Her eyes scan Laura in that bright, dispassionate way of hers.

"You were crying," Jeanne observes.

Laura says nothing. A confirmation would be meaningless, and so would a denial.

"Are you hurt?" Jeanne asks her, not touching, but looking like she wants to.

"No," Laura tells her honestly. Most of the time, she isn't hurt for very long.

Jeanne touches the tips of her fingers to the ground, maybe debating whether to sit down. Ultimately, she stands back up instead.

"Would you come spar with me, Laura?" she asks.

Laura waits, stiff and motionless, but she should have known Jeanne wouldn't leave. She isn't one to lose interest and walk away.

She picks herself up, tucking her hair out of her face, and follows Jeanne to the training room.

.

.

Megan sends her a letter. Just once. It makes Laura's entire body buzz with nauseating anxiety. She spends several breathless days checking online obituaries and missing person reports from all over the continent, spanning months. She finds nothing with a sufficiently fitting description. No mother and daughter of mixed white, Native American and Korean American descent with a dubious background and no surviving family. Not even simply two genetically related women with the correct ages.

Eventually Laura calms down enough to realize that if Kimura had killed Megan, she'd have found a way to gloat to Laura about it by now. She waits a while for the shaking to wind down, and forces herself to eat an apple, and then four of the sandwiches from the large pile Remy has left outside her door. They all have Tabasco sauce in them.

All that's left then is the letter. Laura sits down at the junction between two walls, slices the envelope neatly open with a claw, and unfolds the crisp white paper with trembling fingers.

The contents of the letter aren't ominous or painful or accusing at all. Not even a little. Megan simply tells her about herself, about Debbie, about their new life. They have settled down – Megan fortunately doesn't mention where, at least – and Debbie found a job she enjoys. The money Laura's sent them hasn't run out yet, but Megan's gotten a part time job after school, for the experience.

' _School is so much better here,'_ she writes. _'I'm taking AP art, and doing super well in math for some weird reason. And, Laura, I have a girlfriend! Her name's Sofia. She's awesome. She's smart and funny and insightful and bitchy. I can tell her anything. I told her about you. Nothing real, don't worry! Just about how you kind of saved my life (twice!) and how you were my only friend in middle school, and how much I miss you. Sofia's lost her older brother, so she understands._

 _'I know you're probably freaking out in like a bullshit stoic way right now, but please, seriously, don't worry about me. I'm kind of the best I've been since I was a kid. I'm actually kind of happy._

 _'I wish you could write me back, so I can make you promise that you'll take better fucking care of yourself. Like, no more chopping your hands off. No letting people use your body in ways you don't like. I want so bad to know that you're okay, that you're alive, and fine, and doing things that you actually enjoy. I hope you're surrounded by puppies all day. Or, part of the day, at least. If there's anyone who deserves to always be surrounded by puppies, it's you, Laura._

 _'I miss you like hell. But not so badly that you should feel guilty about it! You'd better be trying your hardest to make yourself happy. You owe me, Laura. You stole like half my clothes._

 _'I hope we can see each other again someday. I'll introduce you to Sofia._

 _'Love you always,_

 _'Megan.'_

Laura folds the letter carefully along its existing creases and presses it to her face, closing her eyes and inhaling the vague scent of Megan, hidden underneath the smells of bleached paper and envelope glue and gasoline. She folds her knees close to her chest, clutches her locket in one hand and just breathes, until her senses are flooded and she can smell nothing else.

Later, she slips the letter back into its envelope and stashes it in her file, alongside the records of her many kills and the two copies of her mother's confession.

She goes to the local animal shelter the next day. Not to adopt. Just to be surrounded by puppies, and think of Megan.

They climb all over her and lick her hands and make soft puppy noises. Laura thinks she might like to volunteer in a place like this someday, maybe, if she can.

.

.

Jeanne and Laura have spent exactly one day and one night in the Savage Land when they receive a call from Jocasta asking them to come to the Briggs Foundation. It hasn't been a pleasant stay, exactly, but Laura still feels a pang of regret when Jeanne agrees to go.

"Those dinosaurs were historically inaccurate," Jeanne notes distractedly, most likely by habit. The robot limbs had been a bit of a giveaway. "The Chindesaurus and Amygdalodon lived in different eras. They had millions of years between them, and have never coexisted."

"I saw accurate dinosaurs once," Laura tells her, "through a machine built by a child. After that we rode a dragon, and I died."

She isn't sure why she just told Jeanne that. She doesn't often find herself telling stories. But something about Jeanne, how familiar she feels to Laura, strangely similar and yet more talkative, makes her want to tell.

"Have you died many times?" Jeanne asks her.

"I don't know," Laura replies. "Several." _How much is many?_

"I see," Jeanne says. She looks composed as always, but maybe slightly curious, and there's a subtle crease between her eyebrows that Laura finds oddly compelling.

Jeanne gives Laura a sharp glance, and Laura realizes she had been staring. She looks down at the trampled grass beneath their feet and continues walking.

"Laura," Jeanne says, stopping her with a hand on her arm and looking at her appraisingly. "Do you want to kiss me?" she asks.

Laura looks back. "Yes," she replies.

"Then do it," Jeanne tells her, expressionless and calm.

Laura hesitates. _Do you want it?_ she wants to ask. But Jeanne wouldn't have offered if she didn't. She isn't that type of person. And, waiting for Laura, Jeanne has become impatient. She leans forward, one hand braced unceremoniously on Laura's shoulder, and kisses her herself.

It's a firm and simple kiss, without urgency or fanfare, and it makes Laura's head rush, makes her body tingle down to her toes. Jeanne pats her hair and caresses her neck, gives her breast an experimental squeeze. Her actions seem calculated, almost perfunctory, but when she draws back Laura can see that she's flushed and breathing irregularly.

"I enjoyed that," she tells Laura, and Laura feels her heart stutter.

 _Will we do it again?_ Laura imagines asking. _Can I hold your hand sometimes?_

"We should get going to Manhattan now," Jeanne says then, so Laura nods and follows her, her hands at her sides.

.

.

"Tell me about you when you were younger," Jubilee asked one day, sitting in Remy's apartment, nudging Laura's knee with her big toe. "But, like, nothing traumatizing! Happy things only."

Laura thought about that. She thought about her mother, who'd loved her; her mother, whom she'd killed. She thought about finding relief and short-lived joy in hurting herself. She thought about finding Megan, who had almost died, who was still in danger of dying, always, because of her.

"Ah, man." Jubilee had stopped nudging her, and simply rested her foot on Laura's shin. "You know how depressing it is that it's taking you this long to think of something, right?"

Laura frowned. "Kiden," she said eventually. It was really the only answer. "Kiden Nixon. A teenage runaway. She was…" She thought about that for a moment. What had Kiden been? "She was my first… friend."

"Okay. So, what were the two of you like? How'd you meet her?"

"We lived together. In New York. On the streets," Laura said. "She found me, in a hotel room. After the man who had used me for sex killed himself."

Laura could smell Jubilee's anxiety spiking so sharply she almost popped out her claws. " _Shit_ ," Jubilee said, clenching her hands. "When did that happen?"

"Five years ago," Laura told her. "I was a sex worker."

"Five years ago? When you were _thirteen_?" Jubilee's voice had become higher. "Oh, Laura."

Something in Jubilee's face bothered Laura. She didn't like it. She wanted to fix it. "Sex work is not a choice to have sex," she tried to explain. "It's a choice to survive."

But Jubilee's expression didn't look any less pained at that. "Was that what it was for you?" she asked quietly.

"No." For Laura, it hadn't been about survival at all. But she didn't know how to verbalize what it had been about. "They gave me orders," she said. "So I followed them. And the other girls, they helped me. With hormones. And my hair."

"They helped you transition," Jubilee said.

"Yes."

"Oh, Laura," Jubilee repeated, quietly, a murmur. Her foot had left Laura's shin. Laura wished it would come back.

There was a silence between them, and Laura let it stretch. Jubilee had requested _happy things only_ , and Laura had failed to provide. She wasn't sure how to fix this. Maneuvering social situations and sidestepping conversational hitches was much more Jubilee's domain.

"Jubilee," Laura tried, after some time. "Tell me about you. When you were younger." She mirrored Jubilee's words with a hopeful half smile. "Happy things."

Jubilee looked at her, still frowning, and Laura thought she might get up and walk away. But instead, she returned Laura's tentative smile. "Well, you know, when I was younger I wasn't a sun-averse, blood-craving, predator-smelling vampire, for one. That's a happy thing," she said. "And, when I was still a mutant, I had my fireworks. Possibly the coolest superpower ever, not to brag. And I was homeless too for a bit. Lived in a mall. Wasn't so bad, to be honest. And of course you already know about my tragically unfulfilled Olympic gymnast destiny. I was basically a prodigy…"

Jubilee continued for a while, giving Laura disjointed, compelling accounts of her life with her parents, the orphanage, the streets, the X-Men. And Jubilee's life wasn't at all devoid of trauma and loss, but hearing her tell it, with her magic words, it still somehow sounded happy.

Incredibly, it seemed, Laura had managed to salvage the conversation. And, Jubilee had placed her foot back on Laura's leg, as well.

.

.

When Jeanne told Laura the truth about Briggs' death, Laura almost didn't believe her at first. It isn't that she didn't think Jeanne was capable of doing it. It isn't that she didn't think Jeanne was capable of lying, either. It's just that, senselessly, irrationally, Laura didn't want to think that Jeanne was capable of doing that to _her._

It wasn't the act. Using her unconscious body in that way was no different than borrowing her knife without asking permission. It wasn't that. That was simply a practical course of action; not a betrayal.

It was the fact that Jeanne had told her – had let her believe – that she was the one who killed him. Not her claws, not her body, but Laura. When she had thought she might be able to stop. Without even the memory of making the choice.

But with Jeanne cornered against their sparring room wall, steady and unashamed and firm in her decisions, Laura doesn't feel right. She feels powerless.

"I won't tell," Laura promises, dull anger pounding harmlessly somewhere in her chest. "I would have done it. I will not hurt you for it." _You have hurt me_ , she wants to say, but doesn't. Having been hurt is nothing remarkable. Having been hurt is nothing new.

And yet, somehow, being hurt by Jeanne isn't something she had expected.

Jeanne doesn't apologize. She doesn't reply at all. So Laura leaves. She has nothing more to say.

She thinks about their kiss. In her mind, imaginary Jeanne is gentle and sure, pressing her lips to Laura's in that simple, straightforward way. She exhales a silent breath as she draws away. She says, " _I like you, Laura,"_ brusque and sincere. She says, " _I regret hurting you._ " She says, _"I don't regret kissing you."_

Laura has a claw extended halfway when she catches herself. She withdraws it slowly enough to not make any sound.

.

.

Laura had no access to her hormones while she was in the arena, of course. It was only 31 days, but she can already feel the effects on her body. Hair just a little coarser, skin just a little oilier. She didn't think she'd mind, but she doesn't like it. It reminds her of bad things, and times when she had to try very hard to feel real.

The chemical burns started healing barely a day into her hospital stay, but they still wouldn't let her go. She asked the nurse about HRT medication, but they wouldn't dispense any without a prescription.

Logan brings her a bouquet of daffodils when he comes to visit. He drops it in her lap and rubs her face with his thumb, wearing his raw, crooked smile. "Had a rough month, huh," he comments.

She says nothing, and he stops touching her. "Brought you these." He gestures at the flowers, which have rolled off her to the edge of the bed. "Get well soon present."

"I didn't need a hospital," Laura tells him. "I am already almost completely healed."

"Yeah," he agrees, distracted. "Standard procedure, probably. Or the opposite, I dunno. The whole thing was fucked."

She looks at his hands, which are fiddling with his lighter, uncharacteristically twitchy. She wonders if he'd been worried. He would never tell her. She could never ask.

"Anyway, I, uh, brought you another present." He turns to the door and says, "C'mon," with a jerk of his head.

Laura had recognized her scent before Logan ever came in, of course, but when Jubilee steps inside the room, her stomach still clenches uncomfortably.

Jubilee's holding another bouquet. She looks tired. Maybe hungry. She has no makeup on.

"Jubilee," Laura says. Her voice breaks in the middle.

Jubilee lets go of the flowers, and in a blink she's by Laura's side, her hands on Laura's face, and Laura barely has time to swallow the unwelcome lump in her throat before Jubilee's mouth is on hers. It's not so much a kiss as a continuous motionless contact of lips; a desperate, unending pressure. Laura clenches her hands in the bedding, claws inadvertently slicing into the mattress, and struggles to breathe.

Logan coughs. "Yeah. Uh. I'm gone. Use protection." He leaves, smelling strongly of mortification.

Jubilee's hands roam all over Laura's face, tracing over her features, her touch gentle and unwavering. Laura breathes in, inhaling the scent of Jubilee's skin, Jubilee's sweat, Jubilee's hair, close and real and overpowering. She feels like her heart might burst, or she might float away, but her fists gripped in the sheets and Jubilee's weight on top of her keep her anchored.

Eventually, Jubilee pulls back, enough to curl beside Laura on the bed and lightly kiss her collarbone, but never not touching.

"Hi," Laura says.

"God, don't you fucking – When I heard you were missing," Jubilee babbles. "And then, the shit that happened – I didn't – _Shit_ , Laura."

"It was not so bad," Laura tells her, hopefully sounding reassuring.

"The _fuck_ it wasn't!"

"I've heard youth groups hold outdoor survival activities," Laura says evenly. "I think it was like that." As an afterthought, she adds, "With a bit more death."

Jubilee laughs and cries. "You fucker!"

Laura looks at Jubilee's fine trembling, and she thinks maybe she'll tell Jubilee about Juston and Ken later. Later, if she looks more able to bear Laura's grief. Later, if she's still here.

Jubilee rolls over to her back and rubs her eyes. "Ugh, how cliché is this shit? I reject you, then you go missing for a fucking month, kidnapped to some real life fucking Battle Royale situation, and I literally fly thousands of miles to kiss you in a fucking hospital bed."

Laura isn't familiar with this cliché. But she is familiar with the expression on Jubilee's face. "Do you want to leave?" she asks.

"Yeah," Jubilee says, and Laura nods. She has gotten used to this, almost. But Jubliee is giving her a strange look. "Not without you, though," she adds, and rolls her eyes. "Obviously."

Laura blinks. "I haven't been discharged," she protests mindlessly.

"I'm discharging you." Jubilee picks up Logan's daffodils and pats the side of the bed. "C'mon."

"I am still younger than you," Laura says. She isn't sure why she's doing this. All she wants in the world is to go with Jubilee. Kiss her, hold her, be with her. But this feels like something that needs doing.

"God, yeah. By, like, a year and a half," Jubilee says with a huffy laugh, lowering the flowers. "It was a crappy excuse, L. I was scared."

"And I am still who I am," Laura continues stubbornly. _I still lack what I lack._

"I know, Laura." Jubilee smiles at her, tucking her fingers in the gashes Laura's claws have made in the bed. "That's kind of the point."

Laura looks at her, searching her face and her posture for insincerity or indecision. But she doesn't find it. So she nods, her heart pounding audibly in her ears.

Jubilee's smile softens. "Let's get you home."

On the way out, Laura notes that the flowers Jubilee had brought and dropped were roses.

.

 _Home_ turns out to be a rented one bedroom apartment with a washing machine taking up about a fifth of the space.

"Don't worry," Jubilee tells her as she locks the door behind them and drops the flowers in a plastic bucket. "Logan's paying."

As soon as her hands are free, Jubilee turns to Laura and buries them in her hair. She kisses her, properly this time, lips parted and mindful of the fangs. Laura closes her eyes and wraps her arms tightly around Jubilee's waist, and kisses her back.

At some point Jubilee must have maneuvered them to the single bed, because Laura finds herself lying down on something soft. Jubilee lets go of her lips to pepper kisses across her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. Laura grips Jubilee's bicep, and Jubilee slides her hand under her shirt, inching it up to her ribcage. They kiss again, more slowly, hands traveling leisurely over each other's bodies. Jubilee's finger traces the lines of Laura's abs, the muscles contracting at the touch, and Jubilee chuckles into their kiss. Laura tightens her arms around Jubilee's back, gathering her closer, and pours all her concentration into kissing her as thoroughly and as gently and as well as she is able.

Eventually, with a few last, lazy but lingering kisses, Jubilee pulls back. She winds a finger in the dark curly hairs on Laura's stomach. "You're hairier than usual," she remarks.

"I haven't been able to take any estrogen or anti-androgens," Laura tells her.

Jubilee removes her hand. "Oh, shit. Sorry." She bends down to kiss Laura's navel. "It's pretty cute, though."

Laura gazes up at her, her lips still tingling and her skin still flushed and a lump of fear still heavy in her stomach. "Jubilee." She bites her tongue, looking at Jubilee intently. "Do you like me?"

Jubilee smiles, looking tender and maybe a little bit sad. She gives Laura's stomach another quick kiss, and pulls herself up to lay on her side, propped on her elbow.

"I like you, Laura. I like you a lot," she says, radiating sincerity like a strong scent. "Do you like _me_?"

 _I love you. I love you. I love you_ , Laura thinks, vehemently, desperately, so loudly Emma Frost must be able to hear it, wherever she is. "Yes," Laura says.

Jubilee smiles again, brighter this time, showing the razor tips of her fangs. Laura smiles back.

"Your smile is my favorite," Jubilee tells her, and scoops her into her arms in a hug, rubbing her nose in Laura's hair.

They stay like that for a while, holding each other, their breathing synchronized. _I wish I had the snuggable sweatshirt,_ Laura thinks, nonsensically. It seems implausible that an article of clothing, or any other material thing, could make this moment any better.

"So, what now?" Jubilee asks when she finally lets go.

"I think," Laura says, fighting to get the words she needs out, "I have had enough school."

Jubilee snorts, and buries her face in Laura's shoulder, running her hand up her arm and through the tips of her hair. "I'm going back to China next month," she says, now playing with the hair at Laura's nape. "You ever been?"

"Yes. I assassinated seventeen 14K members in Guangzhou."

"Well. Interested in trying out the more touristy attractions?"

Laura frowns at her. "No," she says bluntly.

Jubilee laughs. "Laura! What I mean is, come with me?"

Laura stares at her. Jubilee looks hopeful, but also hesitant, and she smells nervous and excited. She removes her hand from Laura's hair as Laura fails to reply.

Jubilee coughs. "So, that's a no, right?" she says with a down-curving smile.

Laura shakes her head. "I want the seat next to yours on the flight," she tells Jubilee intently.

"Pfft." Jubilee touches her cheek briefly in this fluttery, gentle way. "You ass." She smirks at Laura. "I'll call the airline tomorrow."

"Okay."

"I think we should kiss more now."

"Okay."

It doesn't seem important, wrapped up as she is in Jubilee's arms and surrounded by Jubilee's scent and kissing Jubilee's lips, which apartment or which city or which continent Laura is in. And maybe it will, later. But for now, Laura doesn't care. For now, Laura is genuinely, achingly, implausibly happy, maybe actually for the first time.


End file.
